


Existential Crises

by lwise2019



Series: Mikkel's Story [46]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:09:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lwise2019/pseuds/lwise2019
Summary: Mikkel, Sigrun, and Reynir continue their trek towards the pickup site.Regarding Mikkel's story of the man injured by the sea beast, an older friend of mine told me about his uncle who fought in WWI and suffered horrific abdominal wounds.  He lay in No Man's Land for a full day before anyone was able to retrieve him, and, yes, they placed his innards back in his body and sewed him up, and he survived.  So it can in fact happen.
Series: Mikkel's Story [46]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536739
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Existential Crises

Breakfast was reheated soup. The three took their time getting ready, stowing the bedding, striking the tent, drowning the fire … but the boys did not come.

“I'll backtrack,” Sigrun stated, getting wearily to her feet.

“No –” Mikkel began.

“I _can't_ go off and leave them without knowing! I've never left a man behind and I'm not starting now!”

“No, I meant, I'll go. I'm –”

“No! Stop right there! You're staying with the nuisance! That's an order!” They glared at each other, his rebellious nature rising to the surface. “Listen to me, Mikkel. I'm sick as a dog, but I'm still a troll-hunter and you're not. I can spot and dodge trolls. You can't. And I'm the captain. It's my duty.”

“We could all go back.”

“We can't take a civilian into any more danger than we have to, and we can't leave him here alone. This is the only way. You _know_ that.

“I must go and you must stay.”

Mikkel glared at her, wanting to argue, wanting to deny her words. At length his shoulders drooped and he turned away. Sigrun trudged off into the deserted city.

Hours later, Mikkel and Reynir leaned against the walls of their shelter, lost in their thoughts. Mikkel was thinking again about the pendant, and whether he should have at least _tried_ to give it to Sigrun before she left. What if she ran into whatever it had warned him about? What if she took the short way past it, too sick and too tired to circle around a danger she couldn't perceive? What if …

He was torturing himself with such imaginings when he saw her returning.

Exhausted.

Alone.

The men leapt to their feet as she stopped, not looking at them. “No,” Reynir breathed, disbelieving.

“They were caught,” she said flatly. “Nothing to do about it. Time to move. Our duty is to deliver the books to the pickup site. And the tag-along.” She glanced at Reynir, saw him shaking his head in stunned negation. “This has been a disaster of a mission. The least we can do is make sure we don't lose a civilian _too._ ”

There being nothing at all to say, Mikkel heaved up the handles of the wheelbarrow and led the way to the distant outpost, and rescue.

* * *

They walked.

It was very cold, but at least it was not snowing and the winter sun glittered brightly on the fresh snow around them. There were no tracks of animals or grosslings, only the tracks which the travellers left behind.

No one spoke.

The kitten chose to sprawl comfortably atop the baggage tied to the wheelbarrow. Mikkel was uncertain as to where she should be: up front, where she would detect any grosslings that they approached? Riding on Reynir's backpack, as she sometimes did, where she could alert them if he, the non-immune, were threatened? Riding on Sigrun's shoulders, to give warning if something crept up behind them? All choices were potentially bad. He let her choose her own position.

Lunch was cold congealed soup, which no one _wanted_ to eat at the best of times, and which this time they merely picked at. Even Mikkel could not force himself to consume it. In the end, he scraped it into a ditch and they went on, not even feeling hungry in their grief.

They walked.

Mikkel trudged stolidly forward. Every ripple in the snow drew wary attention; every sound brought his head around to check for danger. Reynir followed close on his heels; Sigrun was farther back, still serving as rear guard.

**Thomp.**

Mikkel and the kitten both looked around. It had come from behind them … Mikkel looked back to find Sigrun far behind them, face-down in the snow. Had she passed out? Why hadn't he attended to her more closely?

“Stay there!” he ordered Reynir as he ran to her. He didn't need the well-meaning Icelander in his way.

“Sigrun!” he said sharply, anxiously, reaching for her hands. “You've overexerted yourself! I will carry you the rest of the way on the wheelbarry.”

“No,” she said feebly. “Leave me behind. I'm not supposed to make it back. I became weak, and failed as a leader. It's clearly my punishment to die here in disgrace. The gods will it.”

She hid her face against the snow.

Mikkel stared at her, his thoughts whirling. He glanced over his shoulder; Reynir was standing obediently by the wheelbarrow. Mikkel was glad he'd told the civilian to stay back, for this crisis of confidence was something between soldiers. This was the fever talking, fever and grief and sheer exhaustion. She wasn't thinking straight and so … He picked up a large handful of snow, yanked up the back of her jacket and inner shirt, and shoved the freezing mass down her back.

She yelped, jerked away, rolled over trying to extract the snow, crying, “What is **wrong** with you?!”

Following up, he grabbed her by the collar, shook her much more gently than his immense strength would allow, and demanded, “Are you thinking straight again?”

“Uh …” she managed, caught between trying to extract the snow and trying to escape from his grasp.

“Now you listen closely,” he said sternly. “This is not the time to give up! You need help, and I'm here to provide it. I will bring us all to the end, one way or another, and that is final.”

“Uh … okay,” she answered weakly, her energy exhausted.

He scooped her up, cradled in his arms as once before, carried her to the wheelbarrow and laid her gently across the baggage. “Are you sufficiently comfortable?”

“Yes, this is fine,” she murmured. “An embarrassing enough place to die.”

“I understand. It's been a heavy day. We'll set camp soon enough.”

The one good thing about all this, he thought, is that Reynir hadn't understood their conversation. He would tell the Icelander later that she had just collapsed from the fever.

* * *

They camped outside the city in a ruined cabin: two walls and part of a roof, plenty of firewood. Mikkel pushed Sigrun to wear his spare jacket atop her own, wrapped his spare shirt around her neck to keep her warm, and led her outside – or to the other side of the wall, inside and outside being rather nominal in this case – to rest quietly, her rifle beside her at the ready. While she rested, he built a fire, melted snow for wash-water, and washed what he could of their gear. Leaving Reynir to tend the fire and watch the soup, he set up a clothesline and began hanging things up to dry.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Hmph. I'm serious! I'm at death's door. The infection has gotten worse today, _way_ worse.”

“No, it hasn't. It's better than it was yesterday.” And yet she was weaker, despite all his efforts to get her to rest and eat. She should be getting stronger!

“Not everyone knows this,” he went on, “but our health is affected only 10% by the physical state of one's body. The remaining 90% is all about what is going on _in here._ ” He tapped his head.

“You think I'm just imagining being sick?” she asked with a mixture of resentment and dismay.

“No, not at all. The infection is still quite bad. But your _mind_ governs how the _rest_ of your body copes with it.

“I once worked alongside two men as a cleaning crew on a fishing boat. One of them had a mind made of steel, the other was certain that something would end his life during the deployment. One day a particularly vicious sea beast leapt out of the waves and onto the deck, and shredded the first man's stomach. Afterwards his innards were placed back into his body and everything was sewn up, and the following week he was back to working. The second man got a bad paper-cut one day, and the next week he died from multiple organ failure.

“True story.”

He studied her face for a moment. “You must have seen it happen yourself, the way people _will_ themselves to survive. Or not to.”

“Yeah,” she answered after a long moment. “I have.”

“Pick up your spirits, then! It's in your power to fight this! Or … I can't help you. And you know that.”

She looked away, silent. There had to be something he could say …

“I'm a little surprised to see you reacting so poorly to what happened,” he said at last. “I was under the impression you were highly experienced in the field.” But then he had to look away himself, unable to face her tortured expression. _He_ was highly experienced as a soldier after all …

“I've … never experienced failing my crew mates so horribly.”

“Never?” He had understood that the lives of troll-hunters tended to be disturbingly short.

“Not like _this!_ Not like … this. Yes, _warriors_ die when hunting trolls, or when raiding a nest. _Everyone_ knows that; it's going to happen. But that's not what this was. It's like … this was a test. A test to see if I'm worthy of my role, when I'm not surrounded by my highly trained compatriots.

“And I failed it.

“My _only_ purpose here was to protect everyone. If someone had to die, it _should_ have been me. How can I go home now when they … can't.” She bowed her head, holding back the tears.

Mikkel knew survivor's guilt. He and survivor's guilt had walked together for a long, long time. He had no cure for it, but he could not stand by and let her tear herself apart. He had to do _something!_

“Look,” he said at last, and waited until she reluctantly looked up. “I highly disagree with all of that. I don't even think you were a real leader before.” She stared at him, shock and anger mingling with grief. “You _can't_ be a real leader if you haven't faced defeat, and proven that you can overcome it. So maybe you're right: what has happened _is_ a test.

“But the actual test is right now. If you choose to give up on everything … then I agree. You weren't cut out for the job after all.

“It's your choice.”

He forced himself to face her betrayed expression. He had struck at the foundation of her being, her image of herself as a leader of troll-hunters. Was it enough? Would she fight to prove him wrong? Would she fight _him?_

“I …” she began, but could find no words. He waited.

“Well, I'm still going to be a burden to you two. I'm too woozy to walk as fast as you, and I'll be useless at aiming my gun properly. I'll slow you down if you have to keep pushing me on that stupid wheelbarrow.”

Some of the tension went out of him. “That's quite all right,” he said gently and sincerely, kneeling so as not to loom over her. “I don't mind pushing you along. You've barely slowed us down at all. Truth be told, you weigh virtually nothing!

“Come now. Let's go have some supper, and turn our gaze towards tomorrow.” He stood, extended a hand to help her up … and she seized her rifle and pressed it into his hand.

“Oh, of course. I'll carry your gun for you too.”

“No, you buffoon! You need to _use_ it if I'm unable to guard us.”

“Oh, no. No.” He didn't even want to touch it now. “Let's not be silly. I should not be the one to aim a weapon.”

“Don't _you_ be silly! I know you have at least some training; nobody is allowed to work in the military without it.”

“It's not a matter of _training_ ,” he said, thinking back on many instructors who had tried quite hard and with much invective to train him. “It's a spatial awareness issue.”

“Blah, blah, no excuses! If I promise to try not to die, you have to be up for this. Here! Fire some rounds into that fence pole, the one in the middle. Come on, show me what you've got!”

He sighed, accepting the inevitable. Considering what he'd just put her through, a little humiliation was his just deserts. Taking the rifle, he held it exactly as he'd been taught, aimed carefully, fired multiple shots … and hit nothing anywhere near his target. He waited, not looking at her, as she examined the results.

“Well. You're not too bad for a _blind_ man.” That was less insulting than the usual response to his lack of marksmanship.

“We will simply have to rely on our stealthiness,” he said resignedly. _Or maybe Reynir can use it. I'll ask while she's sleeping._ “Supper now?”

“Sure.” The worst of the storm seemed to have blown over, and she merely looked tired.

Reynir was staring dolefully at the soup simmering on the campfire.

“How are you holding up?” Mikkel asked politely.

“Oh. All's fine. I'm just sitting here thinking … about how I'll never get to see my family ever again. I still have no idea how I can stop the spirits from tracking me, so I'll have to let them take me. It's the only way to prevent them from following me to Iceland and taking everyone I love too.

“So, that.”

Mikkel stared at him, all the recent events falling on him at once: the failure of the tank, Tuuri's death, the loss of the boys, Sigrun's collapse, Sigrun's despair, his own guilt and despair, having to demonstrate his incompetence, and now this …

He bonked the Icelander hard on the head, though not so hard as he easily could have.

“What did you do _that_ for?!”

“For making you think about something else. I can't manage both of you having a breakdown at the same time. One existential crisis per day, please.

“We're all exhausted after today. Our minds will be clearer tomorrow.”


End file.
